5
The family of bankers, with branches all over the world, were assembled this year in Frankfort. Pedro Gonzala, despite his great age, was consulted about every detail by the “young” men of the firm, from fifty years old and upward. The “children” under fifty stood meekly silent, and listened to warnings against the ardor of youth and the temptation of speculative times. The house of Gonzola had braved many storms, was sometimes drawn into international financial catastrophes, but it had always kept its honor unimpeached and continued to live up to its reputation as creditors of the world. These cold men of finance led a dual existence. When they stepped over the thresholds of their palatial homes, the world outside was forgotten. They lived their religious life with extreme exactness. Their wives and daughters were faithful to the Law, in their domestic life, their marriage life, and in the education of their children. They were the remains of a vanishing caste, which lived upon its own fanaticism.
When Joseph first met Pedro Gonzala in his private office, he saw a very old man wearing a black silk skull cap, otherwise well groomed and modern in appearance. He was seated at his desk, surrounded by the members of the firm who listened to him with great respect.
The “old gentleman” came to business every day in his carriage, although he had many cars but was never known to ride in them. He was interested in the breeding of horses, frequented the races, and patronized art, music, and the theatre. Most of his time was devoted to philanthropic enterprises, but he kept a firm hand on the ship of finance, of which he remained until the end of his life the undisputed head.
He questioned Joseph about his mother, remarking upon the success of the Gonzola bank in New York. He knew all about “lucky Garrison” who had shown himself very able. He invited Joseph to dinner at his home.
The Gonzala mansion was sheltered from the gaze of the curious, by a closely planted row of very old trees, whose entwined branches symbolized the unity of the family, a treasure-house of antiques, from all parts of the world—collected with taste and discernment by each succeeding generation. The picture gallery was celebrated for its rare masterpieces. Joseph took great delight in a corner of family portraits. But the most cherished treasure of Pedro Gonzala’s home was Ruth, his granddaughter, just approaching womanhood; she was all that was left of his immediate family. The World War had swept the younger men away. He had lived ten years longer than the allotted Biblical time; he was life-worn, but before he went to his long rest, his little Ruth must be married to a righteous man, a student of the Talmud, and—of equal birth. Such a one was difficult to find.
Pedro Gonzala stood in the grand salon surrounded by beautiful dark-eyed women and serious men of finance. He welcomed Joseph in the name of the family, as a great grandson of that learned man and deep thinker, Joseph Abravanel, who fought with all his strength against the wave of assimilation which had engulfed his immediate family.
“You, my boy, are in the third generation of those who were led away from the old tradition; it is not your fault, but no student or thinker can afford to neglect the study of a race which gave to the world the first revelation of one God. Hebrew thought, in its inception, its ethics, its morals, is the pure wine of religion; in America, they have thinned it with the water of reform, and put it into fine-looking bottles with gold labels.”
There was a ripple of applause; the old gentleman told his little jokes like an actor, expecting response, which the family gave at the proper time; then he related the oft-repeated story of his youth, when his dear Sarah, “God rest her soul,” was alive. He led the boy before a portrait painted by Rembrandt, representing a stately, handsome matron. At a ball in Paris, given to them by the diplomats and aristocrats of France, there were rumors of war, and much disquietude. He himself was absent, called away to a serious Cabinet consultation. The guests crowded about Mrs. Gonzala, who was gracious and smiling.
“Are you not worried, Madame?” asked a celebrated diplomat.
“Oh! No,” laughed Mrs. Gonzala. “I am certain there will be no war, because I will not permit my husband to lend the money for it.”
Ruth stepped daintily down the marble staircase. Her grandfather had bade her array herself. It was a gala occasion—the reunion of the family, and a welcome to a young Gonzola from America. Around her neck were rows of costly pearls; diamonds sparkled in her hair; she wore a cape of ermine, a young queen of an old dynasty—an inheritance of beauty and purity. She put out her hand to Joseph, and said “Welcome, cousin Joseph”—raising her face to his. He bent down and kissed her cheek; they stood looking at each other, speechless. The women nudged each other. “What an ideal couple they might have been”—it was a great pity.
The long dinner table was a beautiful picture with its service of gold, priceless glass and fine linen, and the Patriarchal figure at its head. Ruth sat beside him.
“I am dazzled,” said Joseph, “such lovely women, such jewels, such wealth.”
“We are not wealthy,” answered Ruth, “because it is a principle of the family to give away a large part of its income, and you will see that we live very simply; but tonight all this is in your honor. Our jewels, furs, laces have come down to us from generations back; our home and pictures can never be sold, unless the business goes under, and that will never happen.”
“I hope not,” said Joseph, “it has meant too much to the world; but all these jewels must have been bought once.”
“Oh, yes, in the times of the Ghetto, when the Jews were not allowed to own real estate—so they bought jewels and hung them around the necks of their wives who wore them in secret and gave them to their daughters and daughters’ daughters. This has an interesting history.” She touched a necklace of shining, pink, living things lying against her white skin. “When the Romans separated Queen Berenice from her kingly lover, the last thing he did was to throw these pearls around her neck. She went back to her own dominion and the pearls after her death became the property of the Temple. We have had them in our family for many generations.”
He bent down to examine the pearls, but his gaze stopped at her soft dark eyes.
“And you will give them to your daughter?”
“Yes,” said Ruth, “but I don’t think I shall ever marry.”
“Why—” insisted Joseph.
“Because,” her voice dropped, he bent lower to listen, “I can only marry one of my own faith; they are all dying out. They have forgotten their ancestry.”